


from the ends of the earth

by potted_music



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potted_music/pseuds/potted_music
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is assigned to eliminate a rogue MI6 agent. Personally, he thinks it's a waste of a perfectly good body.</p><p>A fill of this prompt @ dressing-room3: "Something tells me Harry is actually a cruel/violent person and has learned to keep it under a firm lid. Someone saw that his cruelty could be better channeled into Kingsman if Harry could learn to control it." (the rest of the prompt <a href="http://dressing-room3.livejournal.com/405.html?thread=747413#t747413">here</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Any questions,” Arthur asks in a tone implying that none are welcome.

“Just one, sir,” Merlin raises an eyebrow, curiosity tempered by the first stirrings of distaste. “Why couldn’t they decommission him?”

“Oh, but they did, in a manner of speaking.” Arthur falls silent with a choked chuckle, clearly expecting Merlin to ask again. By his second year in Kingsman, Merlin’s an expert at the waiting game, so Arthur, irked or not, will have to give up.

“Not that you’d want that unleashed on unsuspecting civilians,” Arthur finally offers, tapping a finger on the photographs fanned out in front of him.

“Quite an overkill,” Merlin agrees without looking at them again. “But then, he got the information they needed, and it was a war. Really, it’s not all that different from what we do here in Kingsman.”

“But Harry Hart’s not in Kingsman, is he?” Arthur says, tilting his head to the side to size Merlin up. “MI6 is held to a different standard, so yes, they did pull this public relations disaster waiting to happen off Operation Granby, and they did ship him back to London, and prayed for the best.” 

“And?”

“His profile suggests that he’s a thrill-seeker, and it wouldn’t do for someone with his level of clearance to try to buy his way into another little war, would it? There are stretches of time when Hart’s unaccounted for, indicating that he might already be freelancing. You are to find out what he’s digging at by all means necessary, and then eliminate him.”

Whoever handed them the dossiers did a thorough job of preliminary surveillance, Merlin grudgingly admits while leafing through the pages. A life stripped down to the barest essentials of the daily routines slips into his hands, indecent in its vulnerability. To chase away that unwanted thought, he concentrates on the details of the job. His target walks to work and always arrives late, never less than ten minutes yet seldom more than thirty, possibly a petty revenge for the way he was treated by his superiors. Surveillance would have ruled out direct contact with anybody suspicious, yet a long walk through busy streets presents endless opportunities for exchanging signs or even notes in the crowd. He also takes long walks with his scraggly runt: another opportunity to exchange notes through a secret drop, yet a park is a more controlled environment, so, if Merlin is allowed to take a guess, that’s not a priority for now. After an evening walk, the target usually has a pint at a pub across the road from his flat. Nothing strikes Merlin as particularly suspicious, but then, his target knows how to disappear.

“Did they search his flat?” Merlin asks, absent-mindedly shuffling through the photos of the target.

“Of course they did, and they found nothing. Either he carries his notes on him, or he has a safe drop that they have not managed to locate. That’s your job to find out.”

Merlin gathers up the documents, taking a moment to scrutinize the face of his target. What a waste of a good body, he thinks, and winces at the thought.

*

Merlin gives the insides of the pub a cursory, carefully timed glance, not a fraction of a second longer than a casual visitor would have spared. It’s almost empty on a weekday, but the target is already there. He’s seated at the back, but, Merlin notes, with a good view of the window. Merlin settles for a spot at the bar and orders a pint, a mirror behind the row of bottles allowing him a decent view on both Hart and the window.

As he raises his glass for a swig, he allows his gaze to drift. It’s all Kingsman’s fault, Merlin thinks sullenly. Ever since he joined, he barely had time to jerk off, never mind looking for a partner that wasn’t his left hand. Truth be told, on most days he was too knackered to care. So, all Kingsman’s fault, and it was just prolonged abstinence that drove him to wistful appreciation of the target, nothing more. And it’s not like there’s anything wrong with admiring the view as long as he got the job done, is there?

Merlin has seen the pictures, so he knew what to expect, yet in person Hart was even more of a sight. The studied precision of a body trained into perfect obedience of a killer or a dancer, packed into a suit that would have made even Kingsman proud; the strong lines of Hart’s face are offset by the careful curls of his hair, not a stray hair out of place. Merlin allows his eyes to linger for a second longer, and instantly regrets it as Hart turns lazily and catches his gaze in the mirror. Hart’s lips stretch into a smirk, a flash of teeth hinting at something wild and vicious under the veneer of propriety. Steeling himself, Merlin answers the smile, hoping that the target will take it as an attempt at flirtation rather than surveillance, and leans forward to order fish and chips.

While he concentrates on sprinkling his chips with vinegar, Hart gets up briskly. Merlin barely has time to hesitate if he should follow the target this early on in the assignment, with his cover half-blown as is, before he realizes that Hart is not leaving. The man just changes seats and moves to a table closer to the window. Merlin makes a mental note to check which parts of the street are visible from one table, but not the other, as he shifts on his feet, allowing him a better view of the new position of the target.

Not five minutes pass before Hart springs up again. This time, he decisively walks to the back of the pub. Cursing, Merlin wipes his fingers hastily and follows him. He didn’t notice anything beyond the window, but if Hart did, and that made him bolt for the back exit- Merlin pushes on the door with his right hand, his left curled to push on the button at the back of his signet ring, if need be.

It’s not the exit, he realizes belatedly, and curses his stupidity. In a split second before his target presses his forearm into Merlin’s Adam’s apple, the fist of his other hand connecting with Merlin’s solar plexus, Merlin stares at himself in the restroom mirror, bewildered, and then he crumples around the punch. 

It takes all he has not to fight back. Merlin could have wrestled Hart to the floor, or killed him before his body reached the tiles, but a mild-mannered investment banker he was pretending to be couldn’t. He has to fight down all the reactions instilled in him to relax as Hart throws his weight against him, pinning him to the door. Merlin strains to breathe in, and can’t, Hart’s forearm crushing his windpipe. Pain scratches at his throat, and then blossoms lower, spreading to his burning lungs. He knows he’ll have to fight back in earnest eventually, and hopes that he still can, as Hart presses a leg between his thighs, pushing painfully against his crotch. 

Finally, the pressure on his windpipe eases off, and Hart slides his palms against Merlin’s sides, giving him a professional pat-down. As he tries to regain his breathing, dizzy, and angry, and giddy with danger and the thrill of a fight, Merlin thanks all the deities he does not believe in for all the inconspicuously mundane objects that the Kingsman labs have managed to convert to weaponry.

“The wallet’s in the inner pocket on the left side, please,” he rasps.

“Don’t lie to me,” Hart whispers with the silky kindness of a man who believes himself to be in control, yet he does pull out the wallet. He takes a second to study Merlin’s fake ID (Jeremy Robertson, a Bank of Scotland employee), and then shoves it back into Merlin’s pocket, his hand lingering a moment too long inside Merlin’s jacket, a steady pressure against his nipple.

A hungry thrill surges through Merlin’s veins as Hart, his teeth bared, breathes out against his cheek. Oxygen rushes back to his brain, and as his judgment clears, Merlin realizes that he’s hard, painfully and obviously, high on asphyxiation and danger. He gasps for breath once, allowing himself a moment of indulgence, relaxing into the sinewy body pressing him to the wall. Hart’s weight against him is both shielding and controlling; to will his erection down, Merlin imagines that body dead by his hand, a thought sharp like biting down on a broken tooth. With a surge of disappointment that he’d rather not acknowledge, yet does, he pushes forward to extricate himself from Hart’s grip, and his erection presses against the man’s thigh.

“Not so fast,” Hart drawls. “Who sent you? I saw you look. You shifted to have a better view when I switched tables, so don’t try to deny it.”

That was stupid, Merlin admits belatedly, but a Kingsman must know how to make the best of even the most unfortunate circumstances, he thinks with a grim grin. Arthur’s “by all means necessary” must accommodate a honeypot mission too, and if he talked himself into it with all the common sense of an excitable teenager, that doesn’t make it any less of a honeypot, does it?

“I did,” he says, jerking his chin up defiantly. “I did look. Excuse me if I misinterpreted the cues- never mind, I would like to discontinue our acquaintance in light of your violent tendencies and an unfortunate paranoia.”

He’s not sure if Hart believes him, but the man grinds his thigh against his crotch with a smug smile. “Eager, are we?” 

“Let’s pretend none of this happened,” Merlin says with honest enough mortification.

“Why would we do such a thing?”

Hart steps back for a second to maneuver Merlin around so that he’s facing a mirror on the wall, then squeezes Merlin’s wrists in a vice-like grip and presses them to the wall over his head. Merlin pulls incredulously against the grip. It seems steady, yet Merlin knows that as these things go, such grips are just for show, painful and likely to leave bruises, but ultimately easy to break. He could struggle free, if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He gasps as Hart yanks at his belt with his one free hand, and gives his cock a brief business-like squeeze.

Merlin squirms into the touch, too fleeting to be good, and hisses as the palm withdraws. God, he is getting desperate, his cock bobbing joyously at the least provocation, a bead of precome already glistening at the tip. He hopes nobody walks in on them, on him thrusting his bare arse out and laying himself open, because he’s not sure if even that would stop him. He misses it, this, insistent reminders that his body is capable not only of incurring pain, but also of taking pleasure, and he probes the line between the two with the nagging curiosity of a hand that drifts back to pick at a scab.

“You can take it,” Hart purrs in his ear, and kicks his legs further apart. Merlin hears a foil rip, and than the pop of a cap. He growls impatiently and tries to twist around, only to be reminded of Hart’s grip on his wrists as his joints strain. He wills himself to relax into it and savour the wait, the other man’s smell of afternoon sweat and eagerness. The frantic nervous sparks course along his spine, making his hairs stand on end. 

Against his will, Merlin tenses and rises on tiptoes at the initial blunt press of the tip of Hart’s cock. His body tries to avoid the intrusion, and with a conscious effort, Merlin relaxes and sinks back on it, inch by steady inch. He hisses out a breath through clenched teeth.

He forgot the breathless frill of it, he thinks frantically as his hands tense in Hart’s grip, clenching into white-knuckled fists. The solitary dark craving was no match for the forceful swell, the sluggish pulse of a thrust opening him up the way a blunt knife opens an oyster. The hurt isn’t a sharp spark of a warning, urging him to step back and flee, but rather the smug ache of tired muscles, settling into his flesh for good, an inescapable hot wave set to run its course.

“Good boy,” Hart rasps with vindictive wonder as his teeth graze Merlin’s earlobe. “God, you are so tight. You won’t be, by the time we are done.”

And Merlin would have laughed at the incongruity of that, but all he can do is pant into the crook of his elbow, his eyes screwed shut, as his body yields, letting Hart in all the way. 

He almost loses balance, his knees trembling as Hart’s cock drags along his prostate, and that angers him. Sharply, he thrusts back into the press of Hart’s body, and that elicits a harsh exhalation, hot against the back of his skull. But that does make the man speed up, the slaps of sweat-slick skin sharp against Merlin’s arse.

He could, Merlin thinks, do without this, and did, for a while, but he’d rather not. Thoughts flit across his mind in brief, disjointed electric bursts, cut off and scrambled by the stuttering thrusts that he takes with an eagerness that lies deeper than greed, and deeper than conscious thought. The slick squelches as Hart pistons almost all the way out of him and than in are too loud, and he keens open-mouthed against his forearm, not bothering to lick up a thread of drool that runs down his chin. 

When his eyes flutter open at a particularly harsh thrust, he meets Hart’s eyes in the mirror, dark and full of dangerous mirth. Holding his gaze, Hart thrusts deeper, breaking the rhythm, and his heart skips a bit. It feels like a drop through the air in a plane caught in turbulence, blinding bright emptiness rushing up to catch him and gulp him down. He scrabbles for purchase and finds none, none, that is, but the steady push of Hart’s cock, insistent and overwhelming.

It’s not a steadily rising boil but a crashing scorching wave descending on him, wringing him out, and he comes with a sharp cry. He jerks, his muscles constricting violently, crumpling to the floor but for the firm grip of Hart’s fingers that dig deep red grooves into his hip. He sucks in a breath as Hart lets go of his wrists to hold him in place firmer, to plough into in short grinding thrusts.

Through the haze, Merlin reaches back and slides a palm along Hart’s jawline, his thumb toying at a lever at the back of his signet ring. If Hart’s notes are on him, Merlin’s in luck, and the assignment is complete. If not, he’s screwed though, and Merlin jerks his hand back, maybe a little too hastily, and watches as Hart throws his head back and comes with a sigh that sounds almost pained, almost vulnerable.


	2. Chapter 2

“This is what got you going earlier, isn’t it?” Hart says with something altogether too malevolent to be curiosity, and wraps his fingers gently around Merlin’s neck. His palm is cool and deceptively soft against Merlin’s skin. Merlin freezes as the photographs fanned out on Arthur’s desk flash before his eyes, the disassembled broken bodies of those for whom these hands became the very last thing they knew. The fingers on his neck are careful, the measured tension barely qualifying as pressure. Merlin sucks in a breath and nods, relaxing into the touch, as excitement spikes up and surges through his veins. 

He’s not quite sure how he found himself in the position, flushed and naked in Hart’s flat, his clothes marking their path from the door to the bedroom, Hart poised between his legs. Winning the mark’s trust, he thinks, nothing if not pragmatic. Always important, even when the mark is supposed to be dead by the end of the mission. He lets out a short yelp as Hart pushes into him, but Hart cuts it off by pressing the edge of his palm into Merlin’s throat.

His blood rushes faster, roaring in his ears like a resounding echo in the dark caverns inside whence comes fear and faith. His chest heaves in a breath that doesn’t come, muscles battling against emptiness. There’s feral mirth in Hart’s eyes when he catches Merlin’s gaze, and for a while it’s the rhythm of his thrusts that measures out Merlin’s life, stronger than breathing or heartbeat. His muscles bunch up as he strains and rocks against the intrusion, gaping and gasping. Hart pushes deeper inside, as if he wanted to take up all the space and chase Merlin out, leaving behind a brittle empty shell. Merlin arches up into him, bursts of colours flashing across his vision, but right as he balances precariously on the edge, the pressure eases off. 

He keens with yearning as the fingers slide across the skin on his neck, trying to map out the blurred borderlands between his hunger and pain. Each touch burns against his oversensitized nerve endings: the scratch and glide of cool sheets against his back, the insistent ticklish stretch at the back of his knee where Hart’s other palm rests, pushing Merlin’s leg up to his chest, the excessive wetness between his arsecheeks, a batter of Hart’s come from earlier and lube.

“Wait,” Hart commands in a tone that brooks no argument. “Breathe.”

Obediently, Merlin does. Distantly, at the very edge of his consciousness, there’s fear, but it is mostly drowned out by the overwhelming relief. It’s not that he trusts Hart: he does no such thing. But, for once, the risk of death, ever-present throughout his career, is no longer his problem, not a matter of him being fast enough or good enough. He relinquishes his well-honed instinct for danger, lulled by the man rocking over him. 

Hart bats his hand away when Merlin reaches down towards his own straining erection. Vengefully, Merlin clamps down on Hart’s cock, and the man lets out a startled little laugh, and rolls his hips, pushing him impossibly open. Merlin does it again, and then again, in counterpoint to Hart’s thrusts as the man speeds up, and then stills, his brows bunched up in a surprised grimace.

Merlin feels him spill inside, a hot burst followed by a drag across his prostate as Hart starts to pull out. Merlin growls in frustration, and hooks his leg behind the man’s back, keeping him in place. He reaches down and hastily pushes his fingers in, alongside Hart’s softening cock, not caring to be gentle as he twist them, trying to chase his orgasm.

With a chuckle, Hart presses down on his neck again, and this time, it’s not the careful touch right above his collarbones but a firm decisive grip that drags painfully across his windpipe. Merlin bites his lip and closes his eyes, but flashing red stains chase him into the darkness as he hurriedly rides his own fingers. His pulse is frantic and irregular, ringing in his temples as if there was a scared flapping bird trapped inside his skull. He feels his movements slow as he kneads and scratches deep inside himself, and there’s a dizzying spike of horror that only makes him push firmer; and then, the palm withdraws.

As he gulps in air, oxygen sweeps through him, wiping his brain clean; he curls his fingers inside him, and his muscles convulse, orgasm tearing through his body, crumbling it up like a toy. It is almost too intense to be pleasant, and that scares him, this flayed, splayed feeling of vulnerability. But then, Hart collapses on him, sticky and sinewy and heavy, pinning him to the sweaty sheets and holding him form through the aftershocks of the orgasm.

“You are so good,” he hears Hart slur against his temple as the man strokes his head. “Gorgeous, and brave.”

In a drunken daze, Merlin clasps his palm and pulls it to his lips for a kiss. For several languorous minutes he relaxes into the warm weight on him, shielding him from himself, and from what he has to do. He grumbles when Hart finally rolls off him, and does his best not to think while the man shuffles in the next room and runs a tap.

Hart comes back in a tacky purple dressing gown, with a pack of cigarettes and a washcloth in his hand.

“Come on, turn over,” he says, nudging at Merlin’s side, and he obeys, boneless and sated with the ache of well-exercised muscles. A wet washcloth slides between his arsecheeks, wiping up the squelching mess. Hart lingers over his hole, and then presses. The scratch of the cloth against the puffy rim and the minute dip inside make Merlin buck. He doesn’t think he can get hard again anytime soon, but he still ruts against the sheets with none of the earlier urgency, reveling in the lazy dull pleasure. He hears Hart chuckle behind him, and withdraw.

The mattress dips down as Hart sits down next to him. The man waves a pack of cigarettes in front of Merlin’s face, and Merlin barely has strength to shake his head.

Hart knocks a cigarette out of the pack, and reaches into a dressing gown pocket for a lighter. There’s a familiar K on its metal casing.

“You searched my things,” Merlin rasps. “Put that down.”

As if in slow motion, Hart flicks the lighter open. That leaves Merlin five seconds. Against the screamed protestations of all his muscles, Merlin knocks the lighter out of Hart’s hand and jumps after it as it slides across the floor. Three seconds. He slips and loses his balance, goes down on one knee, skinning it in the process, and that’s two seconds, or less. He turns this way and that like a trapped animal as he clasps the grenade. He’s a second away from the shards tearing through his flesh, splattering around blood and shards of bones, but he can imagine it all too vividly.

Coming to a decision, he throws it outside through the glass of a window, and jumps on Hart, covering him with his body.

The lighter explodes, Merlin supposes, before it hits the pavement down below. The shards of glass are still singing through the air when all the windows in the building burst. A siren starts wailing outside.

Hart tenses, and pushes him off. His nostrils flare with fury. “What the hell was that?”


	3. Chapter 3

“I suppose you do have a place where we could talk,” Merlin says, picking up his pants from the floor and pulling them on. 

Hart, his eyes narrowed, follows his movements with barely concealed fury. “I believe an explanation is owed.”

“Yes,” Merlin snarls, balancing on one foot as he pulls on a sock, “to the police, if they realize that this is the one window where the shards flew outwards, not inwards. Do you have another flat? Or anywhere quiet?”

Hart just shakes his head and says nothing, and Merlin’s willing to believe him for now. Neither is Hart trying to pick up anything, which corroborates both the initial report and his private suspicions: there’s nothing incriminating to be found here. Merlin straightens his shirt; one button is missing, but it’ll have to do for now.

“I knew you were no accountant. Their ilk tends to be risk-averse. But then, that makes you just about the dumbest- what did you say you were?” Few men could afford to be smug under the circumstances, but Hart manages. Merlin sends him a smile that comes out decidedly strained and watery.

“I didn’t.”

The whole thing, shady from the word go, leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He concentrates on his tie to drown out the regret and anger lapping at the edges of his consciousness. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to suck in the lingering smell of sex and sweat, and all he can feel is charred dust.

“I’d put that down, if I were you,” he says, straightening his tie in front of a mirror, as Hart reaches for a heavy figurine that could do as a club in a pinch. “If you go for me, one of us will end up dead, and the odds are close enough to make it highly unpleasant for both. Come on, get dressed.”

Reluctantly, Hart sets the figurine back down and puts on his clothes. Merlin tenses when the man walks over to the kitchen door, but Hart just swings it open and picks up a scraggly mutt that rushes out to greet him, its stubby tail wiggling manically.

Merlin pauses on the threshold of the front door. “Don’t tell me you are bringing the dog with you.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I’m bringing the dog,” Hart says, picking up the mutt and holding it inches away from his face with soothing cooing noises.

Merlin winces. “I don’t mean to sound like a downer, but need I remind you that you might be dead before sunrise?”

Hart holds the dog closer to his chest. “All the more reason to take Mr. Pickles with me. Wouldn’t want him to starve in my flat after I’m gone.”

“Did you seriously name the mutt that?” Merlin asks, rolling his eyes.

“The mutt has a better pedigree than you do. Don’t listen to him, Mr. Pickles, his manners leave a lot to be desired.” Hart huffs indignantly, carefully locking the front door behind them, like he is certain that he’ll return.

They are safely around the corner, walking at a measured inconspicuous pace, as the first police cars dash into view. Merlin follows them with studied curiosity, and keeps walking, Hart half a step in front of him, safe in his line of sight. He half-expects the man to bolt there and then: the police, at least, are the devil he knows; yet Hart doesn’t. Sadists, the ones drunk on their power, Merlin knows, are the ones who take threats the worst, crumpling under the weight of a reminder about their newly-discovered vulnerability. There’s none of that horrified helpless anger in Hart, who walks on steady, carrying his dog like a toy under his arm. Yet he cannot be stupid enough to not recognize the risk, so he must have a backup plan, be it a certainty in his innocence or really good bargaining materials, Merlin thinks desperately, no longer able to separate what he would like to believe from what a pragmatic estimate of the situation might be. After a moment’s hesitation, Merlin finally comes to a decision and directs them to the closest Kingsman safehouse.

Whoever furnished the flat had a sense of humour, which is a rarity in the organization. Or at least, Merlin would like to assume that a carefully assorted butterfly collection accompanied by a selection of magazines aimed at teenage girls is a loving literary homage rather than an accurate rendition of someone’s actual interests.

“I assume this one is not yours,” Hart says, looking around curiously but not letting the mutt roam free.

“It isn’t,” Merlin sits down heavily in a herringbone armchair in bright green and pink. He pushes the cushions aside, and pulls out a Kingsman pistol, mentally thanking the designers for the unified planning of weapons stashes. He gestures with the barrel of the pistol at the sofa closest to Hart. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“An interesting modification. Is that for a shotgun shot?” Hart asks, taking a closer look at the gun, and obeys.

“Yes, and this has a 10-round magazine instead of its standard 8.” Merlin rubs at his brow as exhaustion sets in. He’s been running on not nearly enough hours of sleep for far too long, and mind-blowing yet decidedly unsafe sex was not the best idea to begin with, and he’s not sure if he can, or should trust his judgment.

“You don’t want to kill me,” Hart says with more levity than the situation merits.

Merlin tilts his head to the side, trying to gauge his own feelings on the matter. “I don’t,” he finally agrees, somewhat uneasily. “Unlike certain other people. And you have maybe an hour to persuade me why I shouldn’t.”

“Well, and what do you want to hear? Why did you suddenly reconsider?” There’s genuine curiosity in Hart’s eyes, none of the wheedling one might expect.

“I think I might have been given partial or incorrect information. Also, I believe you are too good to be wasted.”

The dog yaps, jolted out of its slumber as Hart does a victorious fist pump. “I knew all the recreational buggery would eventually pay off.”

Merlin shouldn’t go red at the words, but does. “Good as an agent,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice level. “I saw your personal file. Also, you must believe yourself good to have followed me here. Why? You could have tried to run.”

Hart seems genuinely, childishly excited. “Vanity, I suppose. Wouldn’t you be curious who wanted you dead? So, who was it?”

Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t honestly expect me to answer that, do you?”

Hart scoots closer to the edge of his seat. “Let me guess. The Iraqis, is it?”

Merlin lets out a chuckle. Either the man honestly has no idea, or he’s damn good at this game. 

“Fine, not them,” Hart pauses, lost in thought, and then it dawns on him. His shoulders tense as he clutches the dog closer to his chest. “Wait. If you had access to my personal file, that narrows down the list of people who want me dead, doesn’t it.”

That earns Merlin a place in the pantheon of dumb slip-ups. He curses himself quietly; there might have been a way out of this once, a flimsy bridge, but they both could have walked out of this alive. Well, seems like he burned that bridge, didn’t he. He looks up. Fury is roiling in Hart’s eyes.

“You don’t honestly expect me to answer that,” Merlin repeats firmly, and raises the pistol. “Why should you live, Harry Hart? What makes you not a danger? If I were you, I’d start talking.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hart doesn’t answer, not immediately. He juts out his chin, pale with rage. With clinical interest, Merlin observes his muscles flex with the barely suppressed urge to strike out and hurt the invisible opponent. Finally, Hart looks him in the eye with savage glee, and drawls, “You have the facts, don’t you. Is that what you want to hear? I killed those men, because it was the easiest thing to do under the circumstances.”

Merlin cannot help but note that Hart didn’t mention the most recent accusations of disloyalty, either hoping that Merlin wasn’t aware of them, or because he wasn’t aware of them himself. Deciding to play along for now, Merlin adds, “You also tortured them.”

Hart nods, absentmindedly scritching the dog behind its ears. “Yes, because it was the fastest way to obtain the information we needed. Wouldn’t claim that I didn’t enjoy it either.”

He tenses as if to stand up, but Merlin waves him down with his pistol, and Hart obeys. “Stay where you are. I’m waiting.”

Hart eyes him distantly, curiously, as if there was a silent cold distance between them, or as if he was already speaking from the other side, where the dead reproach the living. “It’s not the facts that you want. You have the facts. What you want is a story to make it alright. You are a sentimental man- what’s your name?”

“Merlin,” Merlin says after a moment’s hesitation. There’s no harm in Hart knowing the codename for a couple of hours, or however long it takes. “That’s what I call myself these days, anyway.”

“You are a sentimental man, Merlin.”

In Merlin’s experience of himself, that simply isn’t true. He casts about for a better description, even if “dumb” is the only one that seems to fit at the moment. Finally, even if the shallow platitude scratches his parched throat, he settles for “I’m fair.”

Hart’s lips stretch in a smile that is thin like a slash of a knife, and equally unpleasant to look at. “Fairness has nothing to do with it, see. You want a sob story, don’t you? First, you wanted the danger, because, for whatever reason, that made your dick happy. Mind, I’m not asking you to justify that. In any case, you are not above reaping the benefits of whatever you think my shortcomings might be. Neither was the MI6, if in a different sphere, thank God for the small mercies. And then, they wanted me safely gone, but at least they didn’t ask me to twist myself into something that was more palatable, did they? Frankly, I find that distasteful.”

“Too bad I won’t lose sleep over the opinions of a dead man,” Merlin says, keeping his voice level. “I’m waiting.”

Careful not to make any rush movements, Hart sets his ridiculous dog on the floor. He scratches his head one last time before straightening up again. “If you do shoot me, will you take Mr. Pickles to my sister? She’s on file as my next of kin.”

Merlin nods.

Hart’s smile never wavers, not for a second. “Anything I should do for you if you are the one who doesn’t walk out of this?”

Merlin stops to think for a moment, but then shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

“And, just out of idle curiosity, what kind of story would make my life worth sparing?” Merlin tenses momentarily when Hart reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, but relaxes when all he pulls out is a pack of cigarettes. “Would you mind? I’ll use my own lighter this time.” 

As Merlin shakes his head, Hart lights up. For a while, he smokes in silence, determinedly puffing on his cigarette with each inhalation. Finally, he crushes the half-finished cigarette in an ashtray, and steeples his fingers. “One of the men I killed must have been a double agent, right? One of ours? They wouldn’t have reacted the way they did otherwise. And they wouldn’t want a trial, because who knows what might come out. Is that it?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, honestly but helplessly. No mention of what Hart might have done after his return, even as he’s obviously looking for explanations himself.

Hart breathes in slowly, and clearly makes an effort to relax. “Well, since you are in this line of business, you must find violence acceptable under certain circumstances. To protect yourself and yours? That’s what you want to hear?” Merlin shrugs noncommittally, and Hart continues. “My sister Sarah, the one who’s listed as my next of kin. If you pull up her medical records from when she was young, you’ll find out she had dismal luck with her horse-riding classes. Barely a month passed without her landing in the infirmary with nasty fractures.”

Hart goes silent, and reaches for another cigarette, making a show of lighting it up. “Wasn’t the horse-riding classes,” Merlin prods.

“Who knows? Nobody ever asked,” Hart looks him in the eye with a disconcerted little smile. “Our family had such a streak of bad luck. My father was reported missing, and was never found, not a week after I went on my first tour overseas.”

“And who saw him after your departure?”

“Just my mother, or so she says. And that’s when Sarah’s visits to the infirmary stopped.”

Merlin shifts uncomfortably in his armchair. “If I check, will any of it be true?”

“What do you think?” Hart’s smile, bright and honest, lights the room, and something coils painfully in Merlin’s chest. “Why should it matter any more than the fact that I tortured and killed those men? Besides, there are several ways to spin that story, if all you have are those records.”

“Assuming that they exist.”

“Indeed,” Hart nods. “Assuming that they exist, maybe that’s how I learned that occasionally, violence is the answer. If there’s no other way to protect me and mine.”

“Or they could indicate that it was you all along. You terrified your family into compliance, and then switched to new targets.”

Hart beams, as if they shared a good joke. “Quite. Or, let me try another one. Let’s assume that I was first stationed in Baghdad, before the war, that is. Honeypots work miracles in repressed societies, so that’s how I was getting most of my intel. Not exclusively, but an important enough venue. I was good. Humour me, admit it.” 

“You are good,” Merlin nods easily, and is rewarded with a smug grin.

“There was this guy, Malik. He was well-positioned to obtain the kind of information I needed, so I went for him. Just for the record, I never had to blackmail him with any of it. We had a good time, he shared a lot of intel out of some misplaced idealism, until he was caught red-handed. I knew it was time to get packing and get out of the country the moment he went missing, so I did, but our mutual friend later said that they castrated Malik, shoved his cock down his throat, and then drilled holes through his brain. Then, they searched my flat, but I was already in Kuwait by then.”

Merlin searches Hart’s face for any signs of emotions, but there are none. Hart’s face is impassive, his voice steady, inflected with just a hint of curiosity. “Is it true?” The question comes out almost pleading.

“Would you like it to be?” Hart asks softly. “What does that say about you, if you’d wish that on a man you don’t even know?”

“A man who doesn’t necessarily exist.”

“Yes, but you don’t know that for sure.”

“Are you working for someone else?” Merlin finally asks, cocking his pistol. “Whom are you passing the information?”

Hart laughs, the uncontrolled, hiccupping guffaw raking through his body. “Is that what they told you?” he finally manages.

“Is it true?” Merlin asks.

“Does it matter? It’s a compelling argument.” Hart shrugs, and that’s when the phone rings.

Merlin jumps at the sound. Of course, the Kingsman HQ tracks when alarm systems are deactivated in safehouses, yet he didn’t expect any contact. Without lowering his pistol, he reaches one-handed for the receiver. 

“I got your letter,” he barks out the agreed code for the situation being under control. He hopes that will set the overeager support at peace.

“Never doubted that,” Merlin’s eyes fly open when he hears Arthur’s dry voice on the other end of the line. “Get it over with and come in, we have more important business at hand. Galahad is dead, and we are expecting everybody’s candidates by 9PM tomorrow.”

Merlin wipes his brow with the back of the palm holding a pistol, casting a glance at Hart. The man seems tense, ready to jump. Merlin imagines him dead, the body bloating, leaking and bursting like an overripe fruit, and then disintegrating further, and knows that, most likely, he won’t even remember Hart by that stage. The thought is not upsetting, but it does leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Before he can think better of it, Merlin murmurs, “I’m nominating Harry Hart.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Entertaining if morally reprehensible? Nobody called me that, or at least not in as many words.” Hart smirks when Merlin finally sets down the receiver. “Your boss didn’t sound happy.”

“He seldom is.” Disconcerted, Merlin wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. “I meant it though. Kingsman candidates are granted immunity, so, if you’d rather balk, you have until 9 PM to disappear. Until then, nobody will stop you at the borders.”

“And if I don’t?” Hart walks up to him, his steps light and cautious. Merlin sets aside the pistol and stretches out his legs.

“We are private subcontractors, if you will. We do what needs to be done, yet shouldn’t be permitted on taxpayers’ money. I think you would fit right in.”

With a snicker, Hart straddles his hips: an uncomfortable bony weight, hard pressure on all the wrong places. In counterpoint to that, his palms cupping Merlin’s face are soft and gentle, as if he were cradling a quail egg. His fingers still smell of Merlin’s sweat.

“The pitch leaves a lot to be desired,” Hart chuckles, leaning in close to his ear. “’The new knights’ would have more of a ring to it, don’t you agree?”

Merlin feels suddenly uncomfortable with the pressure on his legs, caging him in. He winces. “I have a feeling that you might get along with Arthur like a house on fire. I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

“You mean the boss? Clearly, he’s a man of great distinction.” And after that, Hart is silent for a while, his teeth grazing along the shell of Merlin’s ear. The pinpricks of pain that shoot through him when Hart bites down are wiped away by hot firm swipes of his tongue, and Merlin shudders at the quickly alternating sensations. He groans when Hart pulls away, shifting awkwardly on his legs.

“So, this is what this was all about?” Hart asks, tilting his head back with curiosity. “The only difference between us being the fact that your paycheck is not coming from the taxpayers’ pockets? Your job doesn’t have to be made palatable, mine has, the right to violence is relegated exclusively to the state, so, no matter what I do, in a way, I’m still more-”

“Maybe,” Merlin cuts him short, a tad too hastily.

“How interesting,” Hart grins, “a man of your métier shouldn’t be given to doubts.”

“And you shouldn’t be a prick towards the man whose doubts saved your life, and yet here we are.”

Nonchalantly, Hart shrugs and scoots forward, pressing his groin to Merlin’s. “Well, the fortunate combination of your misplaced moral sense, my prowess in the sack and my gift of the gab.”

“Whatever you’d like-” Merlin starts, but breaks into a grin. “Fine, that didn’t hurt. And now, off. I’m taking a shower and calling it a night.”

Hart slips off his legs, but trails after him, pausing for a second to pat his silly dog. As Merlin starts undressing in a small but well-stocked bathroom, Hart pauses at the door and lifts an eyebrow.

“Do you want any other stories?” Merlin shakes his head and steps into a shower stall, but that doesn’t stop Hart. 

“Maybe you are not the first time I solved problems with sex,” Hart drawls, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. “Maybe, when you grow up with a father who’s a little bit too quick with his fists, you figure out early on that taking it up the arse beats taking it up the arse and having your ribs broken to boot.”

If untrue, this excess of information, divulged in a perfectly level tone, feels indecent and Merlin’d rather he didn’t have to deal with any of it, yet he wouldn’t risk snapping at the man on the offhand chance that it is. “There’s no point in asking if any of that is true, am I right?” Merlin asks steadily, concentrating on soaping himself up. 

“None whatsoever.” Merlin can hear a grin in Hart’s voice. “Besides, that wouldn’t make a lick of difference for anybody who crossed my path on a bad day.”

“How likely is it that the dossiers your bosses had contained the full list of your exploits?” Merlin asks, turning off the shower and making an effort not to look at Hart.

Harts greets him with a grey terry towel in hand as Merlin steps out of the stall. “How would I know?” he asks, and goes down on one knee to carefully wipe at Merlin’s calves. He is cautious not to tickle the sensitive area behind his knee, his brows knit in concentration, as he continues talking. “I honestly don’t know, and some men disappear easier than others. During my rentboy days-“

“You are just taking the piss,” Merlin manages through rising rage. “I think your Scheherazade act has overstayed its welcome.”

“Why, I would never-“ Hart looks up, all wide-eyed hurt innocence, as he towels Merlin’s thighs. “You are the one who said that I only deserve to live if I can spin a good story. I’m still somewhat invested in the former, so I’d rather do my best with the latter.”

Merlin whacks him over the head with a washcloth. He has a feeling that he’ll never live this down. “You could have just said that you are an invaluable asset.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” Merlin winces as Hart pushes against his abused hole with a toweled hand, but the touch does not linger. Hart’s hands wander sluggishly over his body, drying him more gently than he would have expected.

“Right,” he says, swallowing through the lump in his throat. “You can flee, or you can stay. No matter what you do, I need to sleep. You won’t try anything if I fall asleep now, will you?”

“Don’t they teach you anything?” Hart says, theatrically flexing his hands and clenching his fists as Merlin walks over to a bedroom.

“Thought so,” Merlin says with a sigh, pulling a blanket over his head. “Don’t bother me in the next four hours or so.”

Hart looks like he might want to say something else, but Merlin’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.


End file.
